Dream of the Future
by CDSoundtrack
Summary: Harry James Potter wakes up after the finale of the Battle of Hogwarts... in the cupboard under the stairs. Watch as he realizes that Divination ISN'T bollocks, and that he has a second chance to save everyone that died for him before.
With a loud gasp as if returning to the surface from the bottom of a lake, Harry James Potter awoke in a dark, cramped space. Understandably confused, he groped around for his glasses, disrupting the business of several small arachnids before finding them. Not that the round spectacles made much difference in the darkness, but he could at least make out silhouettes now. Trying to stand up, the only thing he succeeded in doing was slamming his head into the wooden ceiling of wherever he was, making stars appear in his emerald eyes.

Rubbing his bruised forehead and muttering curses under his breath (Muggle ones, not anything that could get himself thrown in Azkaban.), Harry tried to guess where he was based on what he could now see as he adapted to the lack of light. Naturally, his jaw dropped when he recognized where he was.

And why wouldn't it? This place had been the closest he ever had to a home for ten long years, and he used the term 'home' as loosely as 'human being' when talking about a certain miserable excuse for a ferret.

He was in the cupboard under the stairs.

Now confused didn't even cover it. More like Confunded, Obliviated, and one of Barnabas the Barmy's dancing trolls doing the Can-Can on his head all at once. He had said his final goodbyes to this place, to Number Four Privet Drive, the summer he began his Horcrux Hunt with Ron and Hermione. So why was he back? And how in Merlin's majestic beard was he able to fit in this bloody cupboard?!

He tried the door where a small shaft of light was coming through, and thankfully it was unlocked. Knowing that counting his blessings was a bad idea thanks to the Harry Potter clause in Murphy's Law (If it can go wrong, it will, and it'll blow up in some ridiculous way, usually involving the media and common opinion to want his arse on a silver platter for whatever reason), he instead crept stealthily up the familiar steps to the second floor. As he reached the landing he began hearing a loud sound that was reminiscent of a chainsaw and jackhammer. Poking his head into a room where the sound was coming from and reaching into his pocket for his wand, but meeting only lint, he saw… Dudley?

Indeed, a baby killer whale was laying in the bed, snoring like mad. He looked about the same as when he started Smeltings. So… twelve if he recalled correctly. Thinking this was unusual enough, he went to the bathroom to wash his face. Maybe this was some kind of bad dream.

Assured by that, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the sink, splashing cold water into his face. Already feeling better, he looked into the mirror and had to squash a loud noise of surprise.

Looking back at him was a kid, no more than eleven. He had messy black hair, wide green eyes, and looked like he had missed dozens of meals. Harry recognized him immediately. It was him, before he went to Hogwarts for the first time as a first year.

At first, he was confused. But then a sick feeling appeared in his stomach as he realized what must have happened.

Hogwarts had all been a dream.

An escape. An imaginary fantasy where he managed to escape the Dursley's. And he also knew why it had so much loss: life wasn't fair, ten years with this 'family' taught him that. There's no good without bad, and that included the loss of new loved ones in his imagination. In short, he had issues, and should really get a therapist.

If the Dursley's ever let him that is.

Dragging his feet, he returned to the cupboard under the stairs, wishing he hadn't even come up with the blasted idea in the first place. He got his hopes up, but he was still back here at the end of the day, or the beginning as it were. The Dursley's were still asleep, which meant he could sulk for a while.

Everything was a lie. Hermione, the Weasley's, Sirius, Dumbledore, Hogwarts… magic. That was incredibly difficult to swallow. The only consolation he had was that there were no Death Eaters, no Voldemort out for his head, but even that was bittersweet, tainted by the knowledge of everything else that didn't exist.

"Boy! Wake up, it's time for you to make breakfast!" Vernon roared, knocking on the cupboard door with such force that dust and spiders fell from the ceiling.

"Yes Uncle Vernon." He says in a dead tone, opening the door once the walrus that was his uncle had left to sit at the table with a cuppa. He wandered into the kitchen and began cooking bacon and eggs on automatic.

"Don't burn the bacon boy."

"Yes Uncle Vernon."

"Get my coffee!"

"Yes Uncle Vernon."

"Make plenty for our Dudders!" A new voice, high and shrill, appeared, along with a bony woman with more than enough neck for her and her husband.

"Yes Aunt Petunia."

As Dudley ran down the stairs (the smell of bacon arose him. Ironic considering what Hagrid had done to him in his dream), his aunt and uncle focused on their baby killer whale, allowing Harry to sneak a piece of bacon. Unfortunately, this forced him to remember Hedwig, who had died during his escape from Privet Drive. Squashing the memory of his beloved pet down, he began cleaning up as the Dursleys ate.

It was heart wrenching work, almost everything reminded the young Potter of his friends and even enemies, but he managed until he heard the mail slot. This turned into something straight out of Harry's dream.

"Dudley, go get the post."

"Make Harry get it!"

"Boy, go get the post."

"Make Dudley get it." He replied almost on instinct, internally cursing his snark as he ducked out of Uncle Vernon's reach and went to retrieve the mail. Bills, more bills, a postcard from Aunt Marge… Wait.

There was one letter in with the bills and postcard. It was made of heavy parchment, which immediately made his small hands shake. Fear? Excitement? Hope? Some combination of all of these filled his mind as he turned the letter over, looking at the front.

'Harry James Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Winging, Surrey'


End file.
